


and it hurts my chest to breathe

by Lilaciliraya



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: (lol me bitch), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anyways, Car Accidents, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Gen, Hurt Spencer Reid, I only write this pov and its weird so sorry but like deal, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Instability, Non Canonical Immortal, Overdose, POV Second Person, POV Spencer Reid, Recreational Drug Use, Schizophrenia, Suicide Attempt, just kidding even i don't, maybe hes just crazy or mayybeeee, spencer lives though, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:16:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilaciliraya/pseuds/Lilaciliraya
Summary: Your first death was an overdose. You have many, many more before it sticks.





	and it hurts my chest to breathe

**Author's Note:**

> so ive started writing 1000 words a day and what do ya know a lot of them are about spencer. i wrote this the other day and i kind of liked it so im posting it.

After Hankel you don’t kick the drugs. Dilaudid is- it’s everything to you. 

Dilaudid is your escape, your savior, the only way you can pull yourself out of bed in the mornings. The air hangs on you heavy with crushing desperation as you split your eyes open, it tries to keep you down, your inertia is too high it feels like, when you try to exist without it, without forgetting. 

Then you put a needle in your vein and push euphoria straight into your system. Not oblivion- there are no psychedelics cut into this batch. You used all of Tobias’s dilaudid. 

Now you have no one left to blame but yourself.

 

And you think about it sometimes, about how you’ve destroyed yourself, destroyed everything you could have been. Because nothing may have changed yet, but you know there’s no coming back from this. 

You’ve always wanted one thing more than any others. You want to forget.

 

You want to forget and you want to escape and you want it all to stop, the never-ending slideshows of horror in your head, the trains of thought that plow you straight through traumatized and send you somewhere worse. Somewhere you cannot come back from.

Except that when you’re high you don’t remember that you’re supposed to be somewhere dreadful. You forget everything.

 

You’ve always just wanted to forget.

 

Sometimes you think people judge you wrong. That they think you believe your only value is in your mind, your intelligence, your endless streams of knowledge.

You don’t. 

You don’t tell anyone about it, never bring it up, but they’re wrong. You’d give anything to be average. You wish sometimes in the privacy of night that the drugs would permanently take all of your abilities away. That they’d leave you with a perfect 100 IQ and a normal understanding of social conventions.

You wish your brain would be beaten into silence.

 

It’s only when you’re high, though, that you can forget. 

So you know you’re going to stay that way. You’re going to lose your job soon, the only friends you’ve ever had, too. It won’t make you quit.

 

You’ll keep going until the end. You’ll go out happy. Stupidly, blissfully, doped up and happy.

 

It doesn’t surprise you when, one night, you find yourself filling the syringe a little too far. 

You haven’t completely self-destructed yet. Your life is still as it was- from the outside at least. You’ll go out with a little more dignity, this way. 

So you watch as if detached from the scene while your arm extends and your fingers push the drugs into your bloodstream. You get ready for the end, lying broken on your kitchen floor. 

They’ll find you and you will look pathetic. Your team might get themselves involved. You wonder if they’ll understand or if they’ll think you couldn’t have done this to yourself, think that it was somehow murder.

 

Sometimes you want to laugh at the way they seem to think intelligence prevents you from being stupid and miserable and selfish. 

 

You are dying, head against dirty tiles, staring at a broken ceiling light. It reminds you of the cabin, the light you saw as you succumbed to your first high. 

Fitting, is what it is. Perfect. 

 

You can feel your breathing slowing, getting shallower. Your fingers are cold and shaking. Your thoughts are swirling around your head and coming out twisted and you think maybe your arm is moving so you lift your head and it’s really hard to do. Your arm is twitching, you can see, and your fingertips are blue. 

There’s a loud noise echoing through the room and it takes you a minute to realize that the cause was your head colliding with the kitchen floor tiles. 

They’re going to find you on the floor.

 

The last thing you see will be your light fixture. It’s cracked straight down the middle.

 

Your pulse slows, slows, slows- stops.

 

And then you are sitting on your couch, watching a documentary.

 

Your heart jumps into motion, as if making up for the missed beats as it slowed down what felt like seconds ago. Panic, energy, terror- that was supposed to be it.

 

You shouldn’t be alive.

 

The world must be playing a joke on you. You are out of your mind with the chemicals flooding your body and you are still reeling from the total power of organizing your own death, so you don't think twice as you stand and run out of your apartment, stopping right in the middle of the street in front of your building. You wonder what is happening.

You scream your questions silently at the sky, begging with your eyes for answers.

 

There’s a bright light and a loud noise and a pressure and then- you are back inside your apartment.

 

You are pretty sure you are going crazy because you just got hit by a car.

 

You are watching a documentary.

 

You try not to think it but-

 

_ Schizophrenia is genetically passed. _

 

\---

 

The next morning, after a tense few hours of anything but sleeping, you sit at your desk like nothing has changed.  It has, though. Everything has changed. 

You haven't even shot up. Actually- wait- you should be facing withdrawal by now. You really are going crazy. 

 

Except- it just- it felt so real. It all felt real.

 

So you’re going to find out. There should be a vial of dilaudid in your messenger bag.

You pocket it discreetly, transferring your tools as well, and then you wait until Morgan heads to the restroom before standing and following him. If somebody else sees it then it isn’t all in your head. It can’t be.

You rush into the stall and start moving fast. You leave the door unlocked but pull it closed and then you set about pulling a large dose into the syringe- too large. Without thinking twice you tie your arm off, find a vein, and sentence yourself to death. 

You feel it again, the way everything slows down. Your body hurts all over and you can’t support yourself on two feet for the effort of each breath so you fall to the ground. 

You collapse, loudly, and your head strikes the wall and bleeds but too slow because your pulse is weakening with every passing second and someone pushes open the door and there is yelling and- 

 

You’re standing at the sink washing your hands like nothing has happened at all.

 

You’re going mad.

 

\---

 

Your first death was an overdose. You have many, many more before it sticks. 

 

\---


End file.
